FEELING IT ALL, DEEPLY
capricorn season is unravelling me
Like any dedicated astrology lover, I am always thrilled when my sun season rolls around. Once a year, we get to bask in the energy we were born into. Return to our homeland, the comforts of knowing and being known.
My annual return falls in Capricorn season. At a time when most are celebrating, going outward and setting new goals for the year ahead, I always find myself retreating. Getting quieter, enjoying the stillness. The idea of working in such a season baffles me.
Each year, as January 1st rolls around, work is the last thing on my mind. It is, of course, my birthday, and I have a strict policy on anything but fun on the day of my solar return.
As I’ve gotten older, that fun has shifted from clubbing and drinking to swimming and exploring. I haven’t had a hungover birthday in years, and no longer attempt to stay up till midnight for the fireworks (we catch the 8pm ones with all the kids instead).
This year, New Year’s Eve had me sitting on the floor (in the exact spot I’m typing from right now) crying with overwhelm. I don’t remember when calling in my birthday became synonymous with bursting into tears, but I have a consistent track record that I don’t expect to deter from anytime soon.
The crying began with the realisation: 2025 was done. Another big, hard year, over. Another year that didn’t turn out how I expected. A year that found me detouring into sorting out my health, studying a new modality and still not buying a house.
When I reviewed my vision board the week before, I laughed at how few of the things I’d experienced. True, many of them were big swings (and at least five different travel destinations) and hopes I’d thrown in just to see. When I put my board together, almost a year ago to today, I didn’t expect much. I didn’t know what the year would deliver. My not knowing was probably a blessing, because it meant less disappointment when I got to December 31st, a week into watching everyone’s year in review videos.
Instead, I cried because I felt behind. The gushing momentum I’d felt in the months prior had slowed to a trickle, my river of inspiration close to drying up. The plans I’d made were yet to unfold. My dreams were still out for delivery. My deepest desire not yet manifested.
As the tears poured out of me, sad and grateful and longing and relieved, I curled into my boyfriend’s chest. 2025 felt like a year in the waiting room. Months of studying and learning new skills. Clawing my way out of dark holes. Discovering my true self again. Figuring out who I want to be. What I truly desire. What I actually care about, and what I’m willing to let free.
I thought 30 would be better. Shinier. More fabulous and structured and crystal clear. A part of me childishly hoped that this new number would flip a switch in my biology. The kind that eradicated all doubts, hesitations, dysregulation and fears. 30 would finally reset my nervous system, heal all my childhood trauma and polish me into a sophisticated, organised, motivated and driven woman. Like the ones in the opening scene of The Devil Wears Prada. Chic, passionate, impeccably dressed, who put in effort everyday.
30 did no such thing. At least, not in the ways I wanted it to. It coaxed me out of my comfort cave, whispered gentle encouragements, sent moments of euphoria and bliss, taught me to be in gratitude, to really sit with it and feel it.
30 was a year of feeling. I stopped running. Stopped working for a while. There was nowhere to go but within. Even in the weeks where self exploration was the last thing on my mind, the lessons poured in.
One of my biggest breakthroughs came on an annual visit to my parents. I always joke that staying with family is the ultimate shadow work, and that trip was something else. It gave me a sliver of peace, a stitch in a wound that had been open and raw for most of my life. Was it a heal-all? No. But it was something.
I also achieved my tender dream of becoming a Kinesiologist. Not a lifelong one by any means, but one that burned bright and insistent, to the point that I was willing to commute monthly to Melbourne to complete my studies (my teacher moving to the Sunshine Coast was a true miracle). I hit my goal of completing my studies by the end of October, and haven’t had a single client since.
We aren’t supposed to say those kinds of things on the internet, us business owners. We are meant to put on a shiny facade and talk about how busy we are and all the wonderful things we’re doing as self employed fairies. We’re meant to show the highlights, living the dream, rolling in the glory of our pursuits.
But I can’t really be fucked pretending anymore.
If you’ve been paying attention to any of the astrology or human design musings, you know that 2026 and 2027 are gonna be big years. The Age of Aquarius is slowly taking root and the era of being shiny and fake is so, definitively out. The new currency is being a real fucking human. The kind that makes mistakes and follows their passions and doesn’t try to summarise their soul into an elevator pitch.
This season of humanity is one of the individual, as in: truly, shamelessly being yourself. Being enough as you are. Crumbling structures and corporations, seeing through the bullshit of technology. Yes, we are advancing, but we’re also remembering. The rarest gift is creativity, used without the sloppy, water-guzzling assistance of AI.
I am not a trend forecaster by any means. I don’t particularly care what everyone else is doing, or what’s in fashion or how I should be capitalising on how people are engaging with the internet. But I can feel it. I’ve been feeling it for months. This primal desire to strip all of the bullshit away. To stop letting our goddamned phones rule our lives (I’m still working on this, not gonna lie). To spend more time making things than watching others do so. To stop selling our presence to the highest bidder.
I for one, am really fucking excited for melting all the gunk away. Bring on the earnesty, yearning and genuine joy. Bring on crying every damn day because you’re feeling it all. Bring on watching the same show and reading the same books over and over again because they make you feel deeply (this I am a seasoned pro at). I want more declarations of love, more sweet people getting their flowers, more dogs being rescued and more people bonding over art (yes, I am talking about our collective obsession of Heated Rivalry. What a time to be alive!).
Growing up, adults always used to tell me that being in your thirties meant that you didn’t give a fuck anymore. You stopped caring about what other people thought so much, and you did your own thing. You finally had the courage to shed the external expectations and follow what lit you up. Being cool or liked stopped mattering so much. As long as you were kind and you liked yourself, everything would work out.
So maybe it’s not the cosmos. Maybe it’s that indescribable thirties phenomenon, that unshackling and hard-won freedom that comes with age. Maybe 30 wasn’t such a shit show after all — it was just priming me for this. For being brave and being myself. For becoming.